When to Fall
by Pollieanna
Summary: Sherlock would always bring chaos, but he would always solve the case. With the whirlwind of people and pawns falling in the game Sherlock played Molly would always tell them when to fall. Unnoticed, never counted, she would fall too, someday, without thunder or a clatter of bones and skin. She'd fall in a whisper, and nobody would notice. Or maybe, they would...
1. The Hypothermic Sauna

_This is my first story that I've actually published in a while. After the finale of Season 4 I felt the need to really explore Molly and her build up to the finale, and her realasionship development with Sherlock. This will include every episode she's in in each chapter, and a before and after._

 _Here's the before. :)_

 _Enjoy_

 _..._

 _The Hypothermic Sauna_

* * *

" _Oh, it was a case about, um, ten years ago nobody could figure out. There was an old lady dead in a sauna._ "

" _Oh yeah? How'd she die?"_

" _Hypothermia."_

 _"What?"_

* * *

"I loved her."

Molly turned her head away, fisting her hands inside her pockets. She wished that they wouldn't have to identify the body like this, with a sheet covering garish pale skin, no semblance of life left except the shell of a body once occupied.

"I'm so sorry for your loss. Thank you for coming in."

Tears hung off the pepper lashes of the man opposite of her. He seemed not to notice Molly was even there. He had deep set lines drawn into his face, and they contorted against the strain of his quivering frown. A weathered hand reached into view and caressed the woman's cheek, as if she was still feeling, as if waking her up from sleep. He didn't flinch from the cold of her skin, or notice the stiffness of her body. His tears simply dropped onto the closed face of his wife as he kissed her cheek. "I love you, so much."

God help her, Molly felt like a mess watching this man say goodbye to his wife. The old love cradled in his touch, she didn't want to think about the memories they'd made together. She swallowed the lump in her throat and controlled the sting in her eyes. She was the strong one here, she had no right to cry over someone she didn't know, and she had no right to break in front of a shattered man.

Warm brown eyes followed up to her own and she tried not to look away. She'd felt caught in a special moment she shouldn't have seen. "You'll find out what happened to her?" He asked. "She may have been an old girl, but she was healthy enough."

Molly nodded, tried a smile. "Of course," She said. "Now if you will follow Dr. Stanford out so he can finish some of the papers. Again, I'm so sorry for your loss."

The man nodded, placed one last kiss on his wife and followed Stanford out of the room. Molly then took one good look at the door, leaned against the table the body was on, bowing her head. Six months she'd been doing autopsies and she still was trying to get used to it. She usually could get past it with a few awful jokes and move on to slicing open the cadaver, but some cases like this hurt.

"Alright Mrs. Stubb," She began, wheeling her tools closer to the slab. "Let's see what you have to say."

* * *

Throughout the autopsy Molly made notes to the recorder hanging above the body. The body didn't seem to have anything initially the matter. It looked as if she'd dropped dead of her own accord. But opening up the body was a different story.

"Upon further research there are signs of respiratory failure. Lungs are slightly heavier than the average weight, but exhibit no signs of Tobacco usage." Molly took the right lung from the weight next to her a copied down the numbers on the scale. "The lungs seem to have suffered inflammation most commonly occurring during respiratory failure. I'll be taking a small sample for further research, as well as sampling the blood for signs of a profusion of carbon dioxide."

Molly moved farther into the analysis of how Mrs. Stubb had managed to drop dead in the middle of a sauna. It began to become evident however that there was something very amiss. Not only were her lungs exhibiting signs of respiratory failure, Molly also noticed that there was cardiac failure as well, and while both came hand in hand it seemed rather odd that both struck at the same time. Cardiac Failure, Respiratory Failure, gangrene all symptoms of one big beast.

Molly stepped back, cocking her head to the side and observed the body. Hypothermia. All of the pieces were fitting together, but the picture made no sense. Hadn't Scotland Yard said they found her in a Sauna, no signs of the body being moved? They'd actually found her pressed into the corner, under the benches. "You were burrowing, weren't you?" Molly whispered.

Then she noticed the placement of a formulated bruise curving behind the neck. Molly turned the head and saw the tell-tale signs of an injection point for a substance Molly would surely find in the bloodstream. Smirking, Molly peeled off the blue latex gloves and threw them into the bin. "Well, you are proving to be quite interesting, Mrs. Stubb."

* * *

Lestrade the DI for Scotland Yard found Molly waiting outside of the morgue doors, the patient file in hand. "Molly, you said the blood work came back?"

Molly nodded, suppressing a sly smile. She'd met with Lestrade on a few occasions where she'd done the autopsies of a few unfortunate murder victims. "Yes, and it's incredible." She said, pushing from the wall. "I don't think that it was some fluke, her dying of hypothermia I mean. I think that it was-"

"Murder, quite obvious, Doctor, thank you."

Molly recoiled with a questioning look to Lestrade, who, in-tern, shook his head with a flitting glimpse of annoyance. Practically gliding down the hall, a man Molly hadn't previously seen appeared. He had a tall, lean frame, draped in a coat far too heavy for the month of June. He had eyes the color of ice and hair made of mahogany springs, every moment he looked at her she could feel him analyzing her. "Detective, are you sure that this one will due? She's rather new and still trying to prove her worth. Makes for mistakes."

Molly clutched the file closer to her, slightly affronted by the man. He was her age, maybe older, and working on cases. She could say the same thing. His fingers kept twitching, like an itch, and Molly could only stare. "W-Who are you?"

Lestrade stepped in, sending a darting glare over his shoulder. "He's helping with the case."

"The name's Sherlock Holmes." Molly eyed him, for which he rolled his own eyes.

"Molly Hooper." She replied. "Now why should I grant you access to the body?"

"Because I'm the only one who can solve this case, so if you would let us through."

"Lestrade?" Molly swerved on him. "Since when has Scotland Yard invested in the help of junkies, may I ask?"

Sherlock's face remained impassive, save for the slightest twitch of his mouth which gave him away. He was surprised. Molly pursed her lips. "I may examine dead bodies, Mr. Holmes, but I'm still a doctor and know an addict when I see one."

Sherlock smiled, a stretched smile that flipped Molly's stomach, causing a blush to spread unbidden to her cheeks. "You'll do very well, Dr. Hooper."

"What've you found Molly?" Lestrade prodded, glancing between the detective and the pathologist.

Molly broke her eyes from Sherlock, who looked like he was reading her, as if an open book. She hoisted the folders in her arms closer whilst she swung around and pushed open the doors of the morgue. It was a good few degrees colder just by walking through the doors, and Lestrade folded his arms against the cold whilst Molly wheeled out the body. She unzipped the body bag.

Molly opened her files, keeping a attentive eye on the new entity to her morgue. He was rather attractive she mused. He had pounced on examining the body like a bloodhound catching a sent. A small magnifying glass between his index finger and thumb, the glass inches from his eye. This was his element, though his eye continually twitched, moaning for a fix.

Clearing her throat, Molly turned her full attention to her file. "Mrs. Stubb's death resulted in hypothermia, as we obviously already know. The reason why I sense malicious intent, is this." Upon dawning a new pair of gloves, Molly moved the head, exposing the bruising on the neck. "I found this during the autopsy. An injection point from the look of it."

"What, I don't see anything?" Lestrade said, squinting at the neck.

Molly smiled. "Right here. Slight discoloration around the injection point." Her purple latex finger pushed against the portion of the neck in question.

"It's obvious, Detective, slight discoloration right below the ear." Sherlock sighed.

Lestrade came up closer to the body before looking at the injection point that Molly had spoken of. "Alright, so?"

"So," Molly stood up straight and discarded her gloves. "When I did the lab tests, they came back with moderate levels of barbiturates, enough to cause a mild sedative reaction." Seeing Lestrade's blank look, Molly smirked. "Barbiturates, due to the properties can have side effects which cause-"

Sherlock's blue eyes widened. "—Decreased metabolism, and drop of blood pressure which results in the stimulant effect of the drug."

Molly nodded, her cheeks heating. "Y-yes, exactly. When that happens in addition to factors such as her age and that fact that she was mildly anorexic-"

"What? But she's seventy-one."

"A seventy-one year old women who constantly is trying to keep up with the trends, Lestrade. You can tell from the obvious Botox injections on the forehead and cheeks, the constant dying of the hair, and the religious trips to the spa and sauna. An old women trying to remain young forever. Therefore she constantly tries to lose weight, even if it means starving herself to maintain it." Molly and Lestrade merely stared.

"Dear Lord, I don't think I'm ever going to get used to that."

Molly merely gaped. "That was incredibly accurate." She felt some tug at her stomach when Sherlock looked at her.

"Yes, I know." He pulled out a notepad, jotted down a few things, then spoke. "In addition to the malnutrition, the injection of the drug-"

"How do we know she didn't inject herself?"

Sherlock targeted a withering look at the poor DI. "She's obviously left handed, look at the indents on her fingers. Highly unlikely she'd inject something with her right hand on the right side of her neck. If she really wanted to inject drugs she would've done it directly into the arm. No, this, and the obvious bruising show that someone didn't want her to know they were injecting her. Someone knew what they were doing. It was the sauna assistant." Sherlock was rushing to the door, his paper in his hands flapping as if trying to escape. The man was manic.

Lestrade followed after him, casting a half-forgotten thanks at Molly. "You can't make someone have hypothermia in a sauna!"

"If they opened the vents they could, Lestrade!"

The doors swung shut, cutting off the exclamations from both parties. Molly blinked. "Alright." She mumbled into the cool air. Shutting the files, she zipped the body back up ready to roll it back into its locker.

The door slammed open.

Molly squeaked. Turning, she found the blue eyes of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who had popped his head back into the morgue.

"I feel we'll be seeing much more of each other, Dr. Hooper."

He didn't leave, just stood gazing at her, as if waiting for her to say 'piss off'.

"I suppose so." Was her only reply as Molly dropped the hand that had unconsciously clasped over her heart.

With a smirk Sherlock had disappeared into the hall once more.

Molly had a sinking feeling she'd regret her agreement. Yet another blush lit up her neck and ears all the same

...


	2. A Study in Coffee

_Thank you everyone who's favorited, followed, and reviewed The Hypothermic Sauna! I really appreciate that time that you took to read the first chapter! Reviews really help me get an idea of how my writing is as well and what I could change or do better, and things you like, so if you do like the story, don't be afraid to also drop a review!_

 _Anyways! I'm posting the second chapter and this is going to be picking on the first time we get a glimpse of the amazing Molly Hooper. I hope you like this chapter as much as the last. I had to walk the line between the Molly we see on screen and what she's actually thinking. I like to think that she's not as clueless as she may come across to some. She's a good egg. ;)_

 _..._

 _A Study in 'Coffee?'_

* * *

" _I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee?"_

" _Black, two sugars, please. I'll be upstairs."_

* * *

Molly slid her fingers down the back of her neck, shielding the base of it from the abrasive material of her new lab coat. Last week Sherlock had managed to explode a bloated cadaver that had been brought in and completely ruined her overused and over washed coat she'd had for years. She'd also set a spike in her water bill since then, she couldn't seem to get a reached smell out of her nose.

" _Molly, are you still there?"_ Meena's voice filtered through her ear from her mobile pressed against her head.

Molly adjusted the receiver closer to her ear while carefully pressing the button to the lift with her other hand, which was filled with lab results and autopsy papers. She giggled a bit. "Sorry-sorry, I got distracted."

Meena sighed and it crackled over the line. " _God, is that awful bloke there? The one who's a complete sod?"_

"He's not a sod, Meena." Molly exclaimed, feeling the lift jerk to life. There was a silence over the phone. She could practically hear Meena's brows raise. "Alright, maybe he's a bit of a sod, but he's an attractive one."

" _So glad to know that looks are all that's important to you, Molls."_

"Look's are not all that's important to me! He may be a cock sometimes-" Meena coughed something that sounded remotely like, " _Or always."_ But Molly continued past it, ignoring it. "But he's also the most intelligent person I've ever met. And he doesn't think that what I do is gross or odd. That's including you."

" _I do not think that what you do is gross."_ Meena argued, her voice cracking in and out. Bart's had crappy service. " _I just don't like hearing you talk about dead bodies while we're eating."_

"Or any other time." Molly slipped between two nurses when the doors opened and headed toward the canteen, again, slipping her hand behind her head. Rolling her shoulders for good measure once she had hold on the mobile again. "He understands, and he's interested in science and he's smart. Not to mention those killer cheekbones and body." Molly blushed thinking about it.

" _He also uses you because he knows that you fancy him."_

Scowling, Molly entered the canteen and slapped her folders on a table. "He doesn't use me." _Keep denying it, Hooper._ "He doesn't."

" _Sure, that sounds convincing."_

"Piss off, Meena. Jesus, what's wrong with you today?"

" _Hey, I'm just looking out for you. You don't need a man."_

Molly collapsed into a the canteen's cheap white chairs and was met with a plastic groan in return. "Well, your opinion is noted, thank you. But if I want to be in a relationship I'm going to need a man." Molly caught a hint of a smirk lighting up her face.

" _No-no,"_ Meena said. " _There are only two things that a woman our age needs. Those things are either a gay best friend or a cat. We're thirty one, single, and by the looks of you, desperate."_

 _Bitch._ "Meena…" Molly warned.

" _Honesty's the best policy, darling. Look, all I'm saying is we can only go down from here, unless some miricle chap arrives to sweep us away and away from awful family dinners where you're mother asks when she's going to get some grandchildren."_ Meena was growing more exasperated with every word.

Laughing aloud, Molly flipped open her work and spread it over the table and pulled her lunch from her handbag. "Well, I don't really need to worry much about family dinners. But I'm _so very_ curious about how yours are going." Her laugh died away, but the smirk on her face was big enough to hear through the phone.

" _Shut up. I don't want to talk about it."_

"Good, because I'm not that type of doctor."

" _Whore."_

"Love you too, Meena." Molly took a pencil from behind her ear and began marking some of her papers. She caught the sight of Mike walking toward her from the entrance. "I've got to focus on these papers though, so I'll talk to you later." She heard a quick goodbye from the other end before turning her attention to Mike, who'd closed the distance between the door and her table.

"Molly, you've got the office to do your work." His eyes roamed over her mountains of paper.

Shy, Molly fiddled with some of her papers. "Yeah, and it's wonderful, it really is. It's just," Molly folded the edge of the closest paper to her, creased it repeatedly. "I don't want to sound ungrateful, it's just rather cramped with both Nicky and I in there. I decided a change of scenery would be nice." She smiled apologetically.

With a wink, Mike patted her shoulder. "I get it, I wish I could give you all your own space." He clapped his hands, his mouth opening. Molly blinked at the suddenness of it all. "I actually came to tell you that I'm off to lunch and I've left Sherlock up in the lab. He might need adult supervision later on, so maybe pop in, make sure he hasn't torn up the lab, or blown up a cadaver." His boisterous laugh made Molly chuckle along, her fingers reaching for the raw portion of her neck due to the new lab coat. "Not that he'd be down in the morgue anyways. But you understand." He added.

Molly nodded all the same. "I'll finish up the lot of this and then pop in on him."

"Thanks a million, Molly." Mike said. "I know you're on break too, and I would've asked Randy if it was anything else, but I really don't want him to leave crying again." Mike grimaced at the memory.

She shot a winning smile at Mike. "It's fine, I'll deal with Sherlock. I really don't mind at all."

"Thanks, Molly. I'll be back in an hour."

With that he tipped his fingers in goodbye and left out of the outdoor entrance to the canteen and into sunlight that swallowed him whole.

Molly turned back to her work, one hand working furiously along her papers, the other stretched against her neck with her elbow propping her up against the table.

It'd been only twenty minutes later, her paperwork mostly polished off, when Sherlock sought her out.

His long shadow filled the table. Molly knew it was him, she could tell from the loafers. Her head popped from its hunched position whilst her hand left her inflamed neck. "S-sherlock, you startled me." The papers were spewed everywhere across the table and she began mopping them back into their file. Leftover pasta salad, barely touched, was dejected in the corner. "What can I help you with?"

Sherlock gave her a once over, from her calculated ponytail, to her clunky shoes. "You seem to have lost weight, new diet?"

Molly smiled, anxious. She'd been fully prepared to go an check on him, but his surprise visit to her had made her her lose her step. His eyes shifted color when sunlight pouring from the windows touched his blue iris, turning them a soft green. _He's giving you a curious look. Why is he looking at you like that, Molly. Shit, did he say something?_ "Sorry, what?"

Sherlock smirked, like a fox, and with anyone else she would've told them to piss off. _You_ should _tell him to piss off._ Her jaw remained firmly clamped. It's not her fault he was the most beautiful person she'd ever seen in her life. It wasn't like she'd asked to have the biggest crush on Sherlock Holmes, the biggest arse in the entire world. She didn't _want_ this to happen. It just did.

"Molly, you look fetching today." _Oh dear lord, here it is, the hook._ Molly would bite every time. Not that she hadn't figured him out by now, she knew his flattery was nothing but a ruse, but damn her if she let it get in the way of enjoying it.

Her hands smoothed back strands of her hair that may have come loose. "Thank you." She mumbled. "What do you need?" She turned her eyes back to his. They collided. One opened, one closed off.

"I need a body." Lord, save her from her thoughts. Molly turned to finish collecting the papers, an excuse to hide the blush. "I'm looking into bruising after death."

Molly pushed the files against her thumping chest. She smiled, but clenched her teeth. "I've already sneaked you some eyeballs this week, and let you stab one of the other cadavers on Monday." Her voice was low, almost dangerous. Almost. "We both know how that stabbing turned out." An image of the exploding corpse racked a shiver down her spine.

Sherlock flashed a dashing smile. "It's rather important, Molly."

He knew she'd crack. That's why he'd said it. She hated giving him what he wanted, but sometimes he made it too hard to say no. He could waltz off and find a new pathologist to work with at any moment. Maybe not at Bart's, she's the only one who tolerated him, but he'd find someone else. "Fine. But no more the rest of this week or the next."

"Molly—"

"Sherlock, if you want to continue to receive any body parts you're going to have to listen to me sometimes. I can't give you them all the time. I'll lose my job, and you'll lose access to Bart's morgue."

"There's always Stanford."

"Alright, go and ask him for body parts. He may let you stab cadavers for a case-which he was actually rather furious about-but he's never going to give you takeaway body parts." She cocked her head to the side. He knew she was his only mean to get what he wanted. He could always push the amount she gave him, but she was the only one willing to break the rules for him.

Sherlock's face stilled. He agreed. "Do you have a fresh one?"

In answer, Molly smirked.

* * *

Sherlock zipped down the ebony body bag, exposing the greying face to the harsh light of the morgue. It sounded like he may have sniffed at the body before straightening. "How fresh?"

Smiling, Molly paced the back of the room. "Just in. Sixty-seven natural causes. Used to work here. I knew him. He was nice." A smile of fondness passed over her cheeks. Before he'd retired, in the few months that Molly had been in contact with him, he was always sweet to her. Where the other students at Bart's had brushed her off as odd and unsociable, he'd let her pitter about the morgue while he did autopsies and laugh at her awful jokes. Come to think of it, she probably had been rather unsociable. Her smile faltered a bit thinking about it. Her only friend during uni had been an old man, dear lord. She was pathetic.

Sherlock zipped the bag up again, hiding the contents, breaking her from her revear. "Fine. We'll start with the riding crop."

Molly blanched. "Pardon?"

Sherlock pulled out a small riding crop that most certainly looked like an adult toy from under his coat. Her lungs stopped working for a moment."Riding crop. Formulating bruising. Come now, Molly, we both know you're not _that_ dense."

Molly tried to say something witty back, but when she opened her mouth nothing came out that she'd wanted. "Okay." _That's the best you can do?_ There was no use. She exited the morgue quickly, deciding it best to watch him from the hallway. That and she didn't want to do anything else stupid.

She took up a quiet spot outside, peering at him through the window.

Wasting no time, Sherlock took the riding crop in question to the body on the slab. She had to resist shouting at him to keep it away from the face, but his expression made her think twice. Molly kept to watching, with the occasional flinch at the explosive slaps against the body. It seemed like something someone might do on a bad day. Though, any normal person wouldn't take out their anger on dead bodies. Maybe they'd make live bodies into dead ones, but from Molly's knowledge most people kept to screaming into pillows and punching walls. _This is Sherlock you're talking about, though._ He been more irritable lately, Molly could tell that much. _How else do you make sense of stabbing a bloated cadaver?_

Maybe coffee would be a good thing to get his mind off things. _Really, Molly, coffee with Sherlock? Is that really a good idea?_ Molly glowered against the thought. It wouldn't be so bad, besides, it wasn't like it was a date. _Good luck believing that._

He noticed her though. Noticed her all the time in fact. It's not like they weren't friends. _Probably closer to co-workers, if you can even call it that._ It'd be friendly. Completely platonic. Maybe if she just put on some lipstick. She didn't really know what it would do, but her aunt always said she needed more color. She looked so plain with her hair and eyes all brown.

 _Yes, because lipstick fixes everything, Aunt Lauren..._

Molly reached into her lab-coat anyways and pulled the tube out. Just a little bit. It's not like he would notice something so insignificant. _And what about coffee?_ Couldn't hurt to ask could it. _You're getting too attached, Molly girl, don't do it, don't be stupid, you know the answer already._

She was going to be stupid.

His blows became more erratic, manic, so Molly thought it best to intervene. Couldn't give the body back to the family with possible bruising. That'd be not good. Not good at all.

Molly eased her way back into the morgue, laughing internally still at the thought of beating a corpse on a bad day. It would be something that Sherlock would do. He didn't seem to bee in an awfully fowl mood though, so it probably was just for an experiment. God, he was really getting aggresive,

"So, bad day was it?" She giggled, because like it or not she _was_ funny. _Sort of, not really._

He stopped beating the corpse, with a breath introducing his usual calm back to his aura.

Sherlock didn't spare her a glance, too busy thumbing through his note pad. "I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes, a man's alibi depends on it." He almost glanced her way. "Text me."

 _Mental note: keep an eye on the dead body and bruises. Text him results._

Molly took a deep breath. _This is a bad idea_. "Listen, I was wondering," Too late to turn back. She couldn't even look at him. _Pull yourself together, Hooper_. "Maybe later, when you're finished-"

Sherlock finally looked up, hand still scrawling notes. His eyebrows creased and his eyes went straight to her lips. _Shit._ "You're wearing lipstick, you weren't wearing lipstick before."

 _Keep it together. What does it mean if he notices the lipstick? Does it mean anything?_ She pushed it off with a nervous chuckle. "I, ah-" _Think, Hooper, think._ This was bad. _Smile, that's all you could do._ "I refreshed it a bit." _Good. That was good._

The look received by the counterpart in the room gave the distinct impression that Sherlock couldn't calculate her answer. She knew that _he_ knew she was lying. Why she was lying seemed to be the real mystery he was trying to solve. Nevertheless he went back to his notes. "Sorry, you were saying?" He scribbled things that Molly couldn't read from where she stood.

 _He remembered you were going to tell him something._ Hope swelled in her chest. Maybe it wasn't as bad as she thought it was. She wasn't going to back out now. _Keep all eyes on him, Hooper. Abort if necessary_. "I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee?" Her voice was brazen, bolder than she felt.

Sherlock finished with his notes, snapped his book shut. "Black, two sugars, please. I'll be upstairs." One fake smile in her direction.

Molly took a moment to digest what had just happened. He was off before she could say anything. As if she would. That whole situation had ended with the result of a nuclear bomb. She pressed her lips together. _Dear Lord, did you really just ask Sherlock Holmes out while standing over you're dead co-worker? What is wrong with you?_ Her stomach churned just a bit. _No, seriously though, what is_ wrong _with you?_

Molly had no idea what was the matter with her. No idea what-so-ever.

The courage she mustered moments before seemed to scream away like a rouge balloon letting out air.

"O-okay."

* * *

She made him coffee. Of course she made him coffee. Because she was Molly Hooper and he was Sherlock Holmes, and that's what she did. She got him coffee, sneaked him body parts, gave him lab access. She helped him. Why she did all that was anyone's guess, but Molly wouldn't turn _anyone_ away. Even Sherlock Holmes. No, _especially_ not Sherlock Holmes.

She was a 'good egg' as Stanford told her, working holidays and filling in for missing co-workers. It wasn't like it was just Sherlock that Molly helped. Granted some of the things she did for him also risked her job. Which she'd never do for anyone else, save maybe Meena. And in return she'd peek at him while he worked as she did her own and have small little fantasies about him grabbing her and snogging the life out of her. _Seriously there is something wrong with you._

If she could stop it she would. It's not like anyone _really_ has a choice to pick the people they fall for. Sometimes it just happens and there's a moment, like Molly's when she realized how much she actually liked the consulting detective who'd run about her morgue and lab.

Her moment had basically been capped off with one word. _Shit._

All the same, she made him the damn coffee and wiped her lips clean of the stupid lipstick. It wasn't really her color anyways.

Molly pushed her back into the lab doors, keeping Sherlock's coffee steady. She caught sight of Stanford who seemed to be back from lunch, and he'd also brought someone with him. A man who was stocky with impeccable posture, save for his compensating for what must be some type of injury. He looked military, his blonde hair that seemed to be faded nearly white was cropped close to his head.

"Ah, Molly, coffee, thank you." Sherlock called. She gave him a quick smile, tried to leave without interrupting further, but Sherlock noticed. Sherlock's small smile dropped."What happened to the lipstick?"

He always noticed apparently, and also, apparently, liked to point it out too. _Stupid, Molly, this is Sherlock Holmes we're talking about._ She debated replying at all. "It wasn't working for me."

"Really?" Sherlock cocked his head, then dismissed it and walked toward the microscope at the other end of the room. "I thought it was a big improvement. Mouths too-" Molly braced for impact. "-small now." He flicked his hand over his shoulder, as if dismissing or trying to formulate exactly the meaning he was trying to convey.

 _Bastard._ "Okay."

She'd slap him, if she thought it'd make a difference. Instead she left. He was probably one of the closer things she had to a friend besides Meena, or at least someone who found her job just as fascinating as herself. As if any of that made a difference to him.

Molly marched down the hall, leaving the lab behind her. Her face was burning.

As if she'd ever make a difference to Sherlock Holmes.

...


	3. The Blind Pathologist

Hey, guys! First of all, thank you again to any who followed this piece or favorited it, and especially reviewed! I'm happy that you are all enjoying this so far. So it's here, chapter three. And this is were it get's interesting. Molly obviously had a life before, during and Sherlock, but you're going to start seeing more of that life outside of him. Also I went to Molly's blog and got a lot of chat material there. If you wanna go through her blog you'll see some of the stuff is totally taken there to make the chapter more realistic. Anyways, here is the second episode of season one from Molly's POV.

Enjoy guys! Let me know what you think!

...

The Blind Pathologist

* * *

"You've changed your hair."

"W-what?"

"It's good-It suits you better this way."

* * *

Molly curled her lip at the glossy pork in the kitchen tins. Not very appetizing. She hadn't even had a good meal in close to a week. Sherlock's love of murders could really put a damper on Molly's free time and by extension, her diet. Pork and pasta. Neither looked better than the other. Maybe she'd forget about it and finish up the rest of her paper work. Possibly call up the guy she'd met at the pub last night, tell him that she got off work early in the morning, and maybe she could run by. Maybe relieve some built up stress.

A burst of Sherlock came across her eyes.

She'd taken a step back from helping him with experiments and smuggling him body parts. Or he took a step back from you. Either way, she had not seen him in weeks. Not that he came around often anymore anyways. He seemed to have made a new friend, some former army doctor is what she pulled from her memory. Molly was happy for him. She honestly was. He'd finally managed to find someone who could act as an actual friend for him.

She'd just wish that the constant images of him would stop popping up. Without him she didn't get much human contact in her day to day life. At least with the living. Especially since Meena had managed to snag some bloke and had been making the rounds with him for the past few weeks. Nevertheless, she was missing the human contact and conversation with living members of the species. Molly pursed her lips, not that he really was a normal human. He didn't talk much either. But he was nice to sit in the lab with, just to have the mutual company while she worked.

She needed more friends. Molly had come to realise, right in the canteen, that her life seemed rather sad. That'd need to change. She'd also need to work on how to stop dreaming of Sherlock shagging her. They'd been getting worse lately, or better really, which left her frustrated.

"What are you thinking, pork or the pasta?"

Molly might as well have jumped five meters, because that's where her stomach had ended up and she'd need to get it down somehow.

A quick glance told her all she needed to know. Long coat, blue scarf, eyes like a wolf. Stay calm, no matter how clever he is, he still can't read minds. He can't know that you were thinking of him shagging you. "Oh, it's you." She trilled, practicing a wobbly smile.

"I suppose it's never going to trouble Egon Ronay, is it?" He smirked and she shared in the little joke with him, smiling genuinely now. The rest of his personality overshadowed it, but Molly knew he could actually be quite funny, and by normal standards too. He could be such an arse that it didn't ever really resonate with people. "I'd do the pasta. Don't want to be doing the roast pork, not if you're slicing up cadavers."

As if eating roast pork would make her sick at this point. Molly's been slicing up bodies for years now. Roast pork could hardly make a dent. A quick memory settled across her vision, however, of her first day working on actual people. She'd picked the pork for lunch and then proceeded to throw up in the trashcan. Pork had never been the same. She'd stomach it well, but it wasn't her favorite. She didn't even want to guess how Sherlock could have any idea of that. It'd only cause a headache.

"What are you having?"

"I don't eat when I'm working. Digestion slows me down." Rubbish. All his ideas of how to make his brain work more efficiently. No wonder the man was so thin.

"So you're working here tonight?" A shot of hope rung through Molly. Maybe the night wasn't a total loss after all.

"I need to examine some bodies."

"Some?" Keep it together, Molly, he didn't mean your body.

"Eddie Van Coon and Brian Lukis."

The names were familiar. Molly checked her list of autopsies and found their names toward the top. "They're on my list..." How did he know that they were on her list?

She'd started to ask when he faked realization. His voice dropped in a way that made Molly's stomach hitch. "Could you wheel them out for me again?" Damnit, he was playing her.

Say no. She wanted to say yes. "We-well-" His look hid some type of triumph. No. She'd already pushed the paper work though, she couldn't give him access to the body. Probably some other deformed experiment he wanted to do. "Their paperwork's already gone through." It was weak, and he knew it. She gave an apologetic look anyways.

Sherlock took a second to recover. He hadn't expected a no. His eyes flew to her hair, he stopped, started to speak but held back. Odd, he'd never not known what to say. Always on the top of the ball. He motioned to her hair, as if finally realizing something. "You changed your hair."

All thought up to that point vanished. "What?" What was different about her hair? She couldn't seem to remember anymore.

"The style. It's usually parted in the middle."

Oh, that's right. Parted in the middle. She'd tried something different this morning, for the sake of change. He'd probably say something to the effect that the parting showed signs of her lonely life and that she'd go home after work and down three glasses of wine before passing out on her bed. "Yes, well…"

Sherlock interrupted. "It's good, it, um, suits you better this way." His eyes crinkled at the edges, and Molly tried not to faint because Sherlock was smiling at her. Not one of his sarcastic smiles, this one was genuine. You know it's not. She wanted to believe it was genuine. God, was he flirting? If it was anyone but Sherlock Molly would probably go far enough to say yes. Sherlock was still a man, it's not like he's immune to feelings. Maybe he actually fancied her. You also might be grasping at straws.

A traitorous smile crept over her face. Don't. She couldn't find a good reason for why she shouldn't be happy. She decided maybe she could just nip the bodies out quick for him. No big deal. Don't be an idiot. Tell him no. She turned down the aisle anyways, letting the smile take hold. He could have a quick peek.

* * *

When she ended up down in the morgue, wheeling out the bodies, Molly realized that Sherlock Holmes had once again played her. Honestly, Molly, you might as well be blind. Damn him.

She pulled open the first body bag while Sherlock sauntered in. He was with some different DI from the yard. Molly couldn't even recall his name. Lestrade worked with her the most. Maybe it was Dimmock? Molly didn't really care to know him anyways. She didn't care for introductions now at all. In fact she wanted them out as soon as possible so her risk of being sacked could go down significantly. "We're just interested in the feet."

Pausing from opening the body bag, Molly turned toward his voice. "The feet?" Please god, don't let him ask you to give him their feet.

"Yes." He replied. "Do you mind if we have a look at them?"

Molly didn't ask anymore questions, or bother to wonder why he was still smiling at her and using that lowered tone. He had to know he'd already gotten her where he wanted, she wasn't going to argue with him. Actually, going along with his wishes cut the actual time of him lounging in the morgue, risking Molly's job. In answer to his question she simply exposed the feet.

Sherlock smirked. Oh. The tattoo. He was being clever with the DI. She couldn't help but smirk too. Must be some answer to his current case. Probably some clever retort to the DI being stubborn or annoying. The fact that he wasn't going to be asking for their feet in a takeaway bin was also very comforting.

"Now Van Coon."

Molly obliged.

"Oh." He turned knowingly to the DI. Some point proven wrong.

"So…" The DI began. Molly took to taking the bodies back to their places as she listened into the conversation.

"So either these two men just happened to visit the same chinese tattoo parlor," Sherlock said. "Or I'm telling the truth."

"What do you want?" The DI asked. Molly cringed. That was never a good question to ask Sherlock Holmes. He'll continue to expect things. Molly found that out the hard way.

"I want every book from Lukis' apartment and Van Coon's."

The DI nodded, grudgingly. Probably due to the fact that Sherlock had most likely proved him wrong on a separate occasion. It was actually probably multiple occasions. "Fine."

"Good."

And Sherlock was gone, without so much as a thank you. The bastard. The DI followed after him, jogging to catch up. Once the clatter of the door told Molly that they'd really gone she ripped the gloves from her hands and threw them into the bin. "Thank you, Molly, for risking your job to help me." She grumbled her best Sherlock impression as she pulled up the files she'd left on the counter. "Thank you for skipping dinner to help me. Thank you for always giving me what I want." Molly washed her hands quickly before stomping out of the morgue. "Oh it's no problem really. Maybe if you stopped being a complete arse-"

"Seems you're having a bad day."

Swinging around, Molly nearly dropped the files cradled in her hands. A man was walking down the hall towards her, he had a laptop under his pale arm. He didn't look like any doctor. Not with his clothing, just a simple blue shirt and grey trousers. No lab coat or scrubs, nothing. "Sorry? Do I know you?" Molly asked.

The man caught up to her and smiled wide. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. And you don't know me." He laughed nervously. He seemed like the nervous type. He had the palest skin, and the darkest hair and his posture was hunched as if he was constantly over a desk. He had interesting brown eyes that looked far more intelligent than the rest of him. "I work here though," He chuckled and that cut Molly's revere.

Molly hoisted her papers closer, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. "Really, where? You don't seem like the doctor type."

He laughed, causing her to chuckle. "No, no, I'm not a doctor. Never been much good at saving people. Stick to the computers, I do." He pointed over her shoulder, towards the lift. "That bloke in the funny coat have anything to do with you talking to yourself?"

Mortified, Molly felt her entire body heat up, like her blushing didn't see fit to just visit her cheeks and ears. "Oh, God, you heard that?" Maybe if she laughed she wouldn't seem like such a lunatic. The manic laugh didn't seem to help. Just shut up, Hooper.

The brown eyes staring at her turned up at the edges.. "Yeah, I did," He said. "Don't worry though, you don't seem like the type that goes bonkers." He paused. "So, what's he got to do with it?"

Molly laughed and the sound echoed through the hall. A chill ran up her arms. "Sherlock? He's a right git is all. Drives me crazy sometimes."

The man smirked and looked as if he was really seeing her. She had to suppress the urge to tuck a strand of fallen hair behind her ear. "Sorry, what did you say your name was?" She asked.

Right when he opened his mouth to answer a buzzer started going off. The man grimaced and pulled out a mobile, glanced at it, then looked at Molly. "So sorry, that's my boss. I've got to run. Maybe I'll see you around." He started down the hallway in the opposite direction with a small wave. Molly waved back, somewhat dumbfounded.

She just needed a good cup of coffee. But she'd have to make do with the rubbish that was Bart's coffee.

Putting the odd man in the corridor away, and also putting Sherlock out of her mind, and her complete lack of sense when it came to him, Molly walked toward the lift intent on getting to her office. Later she'd grab coffee after she'd taken care of a few things she needed to finish.

Unconsciously, Molly ran a hand across her part, skewed from the center. Her fingers were frigid, which wasn't unusual, given her occupation and where she spent her time. She'd let one little comment about her hair rule her actions. Molly wanted to scream at herself. She was the one enabling Sherlock, he'd keep treating her the way he did if she didn't put a stop to it. That's a funny story, Hooper. As if you can tell him no.

The entire lift ride up to the third floor Molly continued to stew with all the things she wanted to say to Sherlock. Then an absolutely fabulous idea came to mind. Her pathetic little blog, that was mostly for her than anyone else, would be perfect to vent her feelings. And she'd be able to update her nonexistent audience on Toby and how he'd managed to fit into her life. It wasn't as if there was a plethora of bodies for her to examine, yet anyways. There wasn't a plethora yet. She'd take a quick brake to her office, file her papers like she'd planned, and update her blog. Then she'd wait for any bodies to show up, or for her shift to end. Whichever came first.

Her office was small, off a ways from the lab, but close enough. It didn't have any windows that opened, so the air was usually stuffy and cumbersome, floating around like a stiff sheet of cloth. Although she called it her office, it was actually joint with another colleague. However, their shifts rarely lined up. The opposite desk of Molly's was full of family photos and homemade souvenirs, Molly had a picture Meena and herself, and another of her father. Molly had a far more open schedule in short. She could shift times and dates unlike and usually worked the hours nobody else could do. Not to mention the whims of Sherlock Holmes which often pulled her from bed or from her couch and back to the lab at ungodly hours.

Molly fell into the unforgiving desk chair, feeling the back scrape the wall behind her. Not only was it stuffy and hot, the space did not take well to two sets of desks, chairs, and filing cabinets, and mailing slots. Molly rested her head against the wall, curling her feet up onto her chair. She'd get an office for herself someday. She'd earn that one day. If it was the last thing she did, she was going to get her own office at Bart's.

Her laptop was older, heavier, but did the job, so she cracked it open, waiting for the flashing screens to show her loggin. Logging onto the blog took no time, and soon enough Molly was typing. She'd found herself to be off of the rush Sherlock gave her and was now feeling the brute force of the late hour. 23:56. Molly wanted to sleep and did not like the fact that she was scheduled another four or so hours.

Finger's began a symphony of words across the keyboard.

Sorry, I've been really busy recently.

Lies, but she didn't want to seem like she actually forgotten about her stupid little blog.

Work is the same old. Caroline's left. Which we're all quite happy about because we were sick of hearing about that flipping hedge.

Now to talk about Toby, get that out of the way so she can get into the really annoying bit.

Toby's still brilliant. He sleeps on my bed now which is really nice. Toasty!

She'd make it seem like an after though, mentioning Sherlock, and his awfulness. Her frustration that she was a strong woman, damnit, and Sherlock seemed to force all sense from her brain.

Oh, and Sherlock came in again tonight. And he was his usual arrogant self! And he was blatantly flirting with me and I know he's doing it and I should tell him to stop but I don't! And, of course, he was only doing it so I'd help him with something. As soon as he got what he wanted, he was off.

OMG! I nearly just wrote 'At least Toby will never leave me'. I am becoming a Mad Spinster!

She'd said it before and she'd say it again, her life was pathetic. But, she reasoned, at least Toby won't leave. Most likely.

Molly could almost laugh at herself. In fact she did. After her dad died she vowed that she would make something of herself, that she'd be important. Molly knew that she wouldn't be important to the entire world, but she vowed that she'd be important to someone, to something, that she'd be able to make a difference. That's what her dad did. He could always touch people, make them feel special, like they were worth it. He was lovely.

She felt like a failure so far. Giving into Sherlock wasn't helping the situation either. Molly stomped her foot. Next time he did something out of hand, or rude, she'd call him on it. He could find a new pathologist for all she cared. Alright, maybe, she'd care about that, but she wasn't going to sit back and take it.

Molly absently re-read the post she'd submitted on the blog. The curly scrawl and pink cats and flowers eased her. That is, until she saw it.

The laptop almost took a dive to the floor when Molly fumbled with the screen, trying to get a good read on her words. Her nose was inches from the glowing monitor. She felt sick. Definitely sick. She'd used his name. Sherlock's name was amongst the cats and the flowers and her talk of Toby. Sherlock's name was on her blog in the middle of a paragraph about her frustration with his flirting. No, no, no, Molly Hooper, you've ended your life as you know it.

It didn't matter that the blog wasn't read by anyone, it was still up on a public website. Oh God, the panic was setting in. She could fix this. Take a few deep breaths and delete it. Simple. Molly would be home free and this would be just a funny memory. That is, if Molly could find out how to delete the post. "Where is the bloody delete?" At some point she took to banging on the keyboard, and she must have looked absolutely mad.. Side bun swaying by her shoulder, eyes crazed, and fists clenched so tightly they were must really hate you, Molly.

Commenting was her last resort on the matter.

Oh! How can I delete this?! I meant to say 'you-know-who' not his name!  
Don't read this! Nobody read this!

Groaning internally, Molly shot a skyward curse at Meena for ever giving her the idea of a blog. Oh I love it, So great to get the pent up stuff into the open. Molly should've simply said that was what journals are for. That's obviously not the course of action that had been taken, seeing how Molly was now finding herself dreading the next moment she saw Sherlock. He's not ever going to see this. Stop being stupid.

Whilst Molly sat cursing the existence of her blog with her hands cradling her eyes, rubbing the bridge of her nose, her laptop pinged. The sound was small, but in the silence was loud. Notification of a comment on the blog. Time to start packing for a new life, Dr. Hooper. Actually a new name will be needed. What about Mrs. Holmes?

What the hell, Molly? "God, what is the matter with you?" She hadn't meant to say it aloud, and now she felt even worse about her sanity than before. "I'm a walking mess." You really are, it's quite sad to be honest. She shriveled back into her chair, wanting to scream again.

Molly looked at her blog, read the comments and prepared to move to Portugal or some country where no one who find her.

Hi, sorry, are you the lady who works in the morgue? The one with the nose?

Jim 26 March 00:14

All previous thought was to be taken up at a different time. Somebody named Jim seemed to not only read her blog, but also knew her, and have thoughts about her nose. Molly touched a fleeting finger to the rosy tip of it. It was cold. What's wrong with my nose?

A more prudent question came to mind whilst she prodded her nose.

Who are you?

Molly Hooper 26 March 00:15

Sorry! I work in the IT dept. Stupid night shift.

Jim 26 March 00:17

Molly rubbed her tired eyes, feeling the extreme need for coffee again set in. Tonight had been one of the most random night's ever. Sherlock was always random, so that was to be somewhat expected, however Molly met some odd man down by the morgue, and now another seems to be reading her blog. It was the most action she'd seen in weeks.

Are you all right? You've gone quiet...

Jim 26 March 00:22

She took another dig into her eyes with the knuckles of her index fingers, trying to rub the sting out of them. No need to be rude because of her bazar night. Her fingers found the keyboard again.

Sorry. I'm just feeling a bit silly. I didn't know anyone read my blog. What's wrong with my nose?

Molly Hooper 26 March 00:26

In the time it took to wait for Jim's reply, Molly had ran her finger down the length of her nose five times. It wasn't a bad nose, she didn't think. Then again that seemed to be the prominent feature of her face, according to this Jim person. Molly (The Nose) Hooper. God, she sounded like some awful American gangster.

Nothing. It's a cute nose. I hope you don't mind me saying. I'm here all night so I need more coffee.

Jim 26 March 00:28

Okay.

Molly Hooper 26 March 00:30

Do you like coffee?

Jim 26 March 00:32

Yes

Molly Hooper 26 March 00:34

Would you like to meet for coffee? In the canteen?

Jim 26 March 00:35

Molly didn't know what to think. She'd found her lips curling into a smile, imagining some attractive man showing up in the canteen waiting to have god awful coffee with her. She had her reservations, like if he turned out to be a complete psychopath. But what were the odds on that? It was a cynical way to look at the world. Here was someone who, granted she'd never met, seemed to want to have coffee with her, and she was thinking of saying no. That was no good, no good at all.

She risked the possibility of sounding awful, but Molly at least hoped he was attractive.

Erm... okay. 5 minutes?

Molly Hooper 26 March 00:40

See you there!

Jim 26 March 00:41

Molly left her office with only her card in her pockets and trekked down to the canteen. The prospect of getting coffee, and possibly talking to a handsome stranger greatly filled her mood, and thoughts of Sherlock had gone.

She fussed with her hair in the warped silver reflection given in the lift. Molly did the best she could at straightening her coat and her hair given the current mirror, and pinched her cheeks for some color. It could be the lift, but she looked rather pale. _You always look pale._

The canteen was mostly closed save for a few cold things in displays, but Molly marveled at the smell that only hours ago she'd loathed and allowed Sherlock to drag her from. Her stomach was quite empty and she may grab a bite on top of the coffee.

It was totally empty of any people except one. Only one was sitting, facing the entrance, his eyes glazed and dead. He had a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. The toughs of steam rising from the open cup passed by his face like slow moving water, turning him into a wafting specter. Not only did she notice the face, she also recognized it. "I'm assuming you're Jim?" Jim was the same man she'd met down by the morgue it would seem.

Jim looked up with a large smile and sipped his coffee. He grimaced. "That's right! Now, I don't want you to think that i'm creepy because I found your blog. I just noticed your name tag and I'm really good with names and so I looked you up. I didn't give you a way to reach me before I had to fly. So I thought I'd try an get ahold of you." He watched Molly slide into the seat adjacent him. "I understand if that's creepy though."

Molly laughed, shaking her head. "No, it's not. I was just surprised. And I'm still surprised. Sorry, I didn't put it together that we'd already met. I'm rather tired. You'd think I'd be used to being up during the witching hour, with all the dead people I handle." Not only did she laugh, so did Jim. It caused her smile to widen further. Nobody liked her jokes.

Jim leaned forward. "So you're a pathologist then?" Molly nodded. "And you know Sherlock Holmes?"

"Oh, I'm so embarrassed over that whole thing." She hid her face under her hands. Her palms burned from the heat coming off of her cheeks.

Jim jumped up, nearly splashing his coffee everywhere. "No, no, I was just asking because of earlier tonight and you mentioned it in your blog. I'm not judging, by all means. But I'm just curious what he's like?"

"You don't want to know." Molly tried to laugh, but it just ended with a half hearted giggle. Jim seemed to be latched to her every word all the same. "He brings a type of destruction wherever he goes. Once you meet him you just can't go back to who you were before."

Jim nodded, "Interesting." He said. His eyes roamed her body, before they widened, the lights above flashing across them. He stood up and she noticed he was a good height. He looked small, but still quite muscular. "Sorry, let me make you some coffee. How do you take it?"

"Cream. Lots of cream." Molly grinned. "Thank you, it's very kind." He was attractive. She wouldn't mind getting to know him more.

Jim nodded, smiled, dropped it, then smiled again. He seemed so shy. "Of course." He cleared his throat. "Could I call you Molly instead of Dr. Hooper, do you think?"

Another smile from Molly. She nodded. "Yes, please do." The look Jim gave her on the way to make her coffee caused a sense of euphoria to numb her brain.

Maybe god didn't hate her as much as she previously thought.

...


	4. The Cruel Game

_Oh, my goodness! Look, we've gotten through season one! Thank's to all my continued readers! I know this is a reeeeeaaaaalllly slow burn story here, but there's just so much to explore with Molly. Bare with me! This is a long one, hopefully it doesn't feel too long. Some of the scenes may seem really unneeded, but I want you guys to see the Molly we don't see and how some of the vauge things that are mentioned in her reference could tie in. For instance, in season 3 there's their little awkward talk about her being a drunk. Welp...we kinda can start to see were Sherlock might drag that from. Anyways...not rambling on and on! I'm just so greatful to those who are sticking with the story. I'm going to try and update weekly towards the middle of the week. So be prepared! After season one is when Molly get's jucier, so we're gonna pick up the tempo here!_

 _Enjoy everyone! Let me know what you think of the chapter! :)_

 _..._

 _The Cruel Game_

* * *

 _Jim works in I.T. upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance."_

" _Gay."_

 _"Sorry, what?"_

* * *

This was a stupid idea. A really dumb stupid idea, and Molly knew it, but she didn't stop it, because this was the first time in nearly a month that she wasn't holed up in her flat or working on cadavers.

Her ears were thumping with the pulsing music throughout the club. Lights flashed in intervals of blue, red, and green. They blinded her, making her feel slightly sick. Meena was out on the dance floor, sandwiched between two bulky chaps, waving her body in a slurred drunken sort of way. She'd given up entirely on trying to drag Molly out onto the floor and simply shot her heavy looks that said, ' _Look at this, Mol's, all these blokes, you could join in too'._

After another one of those specific looks, Molly raised her shot glass in a sort of salute to her friend. Meena was always the social one, could get men to buy her drinks and take her home with them. Molly was always the background image. Besides, if anybody ever started a conversation with her it usually ended up with long awkward silences when they hit the topic of work, interests, and anything else.

Molly threw back a shot, grimacing at the burn running down her throat and welcomed the numbing sensation that followed. She was tipsy but at least she wasn't Meena. Meena who was stumbling her way over to Molly, giggling profusely. Her clammy hands clapped onto Molly's arms, her entire body weight hanging onto the pathologist. Molly's stool nearly tipped to the side before she caught it. "Molls, you need be more loose. 'Av fun." Her breath rolled from her pink stained lips in alcohol infused waves. _God, remind her to brush her teeth after this._

Alcohol ridden Meena looked a right mess. Her blond curls had fallen into messy waves, and the sheen of sweat caused her skin to reflect the lights flashing above. Her eyes, usually sharp and coherent, were a foggy green. Somehow, even with the dazed look and horrid breath, she still looked amazing.

Molly steadied her friend as she tripped over her own feet and almost fell face first into the bar. "Meena, I think you should probably sit down."

Menna held her forehead with a shivering hand. She suddenly looked green in the face. "Prob'ly right." She barely held down a hiccup. "Firs' time in a month we've gone out 'n I'm plastered."

Molly laughed and ordered a drink of water for Meena, who had slumped against the bar, eyeing some blokes arses. Meena giggled and took a drink, or at least tried to; she'd managed to slosh the water down her front. Molly snatched a napkin and dabbed at Meena's chest. "Alright, I think it's about time to call it a night. Come on. We need to fetch a cab." She hauled Meena up by the armpits. _For being so damn skinny she's damn heavy._ Then again she was soaked through with drinks. Meena would probably need to stay away from any open flames for the next day or so.

"You' barely even danced!" Meena's face had found purchase directly between Molly's breasts. She was drooling through Molly's blouse. Molly grimaced, shifting her hold on Meena, nearly causing her to fall to the floor. "You've got to le' go, Mol's. 'Av fun." Her arms flailed about, resulting in her slipping down against Molly's chest again.

"God, you're heavy, Meena." Molly heaved her with no success. "At least try to help." Molly was slightly tipsy herself and despite her frustration managed to giggle at one of Meena's unattractive snorts. Meena continued trying to stand, as if she was a newborn fowl straight out of the womb, wobbly legged and completely useless. Then she completely fell out of Molly's grasp and slapped against the floor with a concussive thump.

Molly tried to stop laughing, but Meena's sprawled body and the glances from the surrounding people kept her unable to hold back. "Meena, we need to go. Get up." She prodded Meena with an extended finger, but her friend was passed out. Molly groaned. "Meena, you're completely useless!"

"Molly, what are you doing—what happened?"

Molly first thought that Meena had somehow managed to speak, in a man's voice no less, until she turned her face up. A green strobe light blinded her, shadowing a head and shoulders, that's all she'd managed to see before rubbing her eyes. "Who are you?"

"Oh, now you're just hurting my feelings." The man knelt down and Molly finally saw his face. Jim. Of all people to find Meena and her, indisposed in a pub, it had to be Jim. _At least it wasn't Sherlock._

Molly blinked for a moment before smiling, which Jim replied to with a shy smirk. "Jim! What're you doing here?" She'd given up hope of picking up the sack of bones that was Meena, and sat back on her hutches to get a better look at Jim, who was looking dashing in his regular T-shirt and denim ensemble.

Jim placed his untouched drink on the counter before kneeling down. "I'm here with a few blokes. You're friend ok?"

Molly shook her head. "She's out cold. Don't know how I'm going to get her home."

"Well, I could probably help. If you wanted that is?"

"Oh, I wouldn't want to take you from your friends."

Jim shook his head, already throwing Meena's arm over the back of his neck. He motioned for Molly to follow. She did. "They aren't really my type anyways."

Molly begun dragging Meena along with Jim's much needed assistance. They'd managed to get her out of the pub and into the cool March atmosphere. The chill seemed to rouse Meena who muttered a good string of curses as they plopped her down on a bus bench that was nearby.

Jim began the process of flagging down a cab, and Molly couldn't be happier. She needed a laydown, but sitting would have to do. Dragging Meena from the pub had taken a toll. Checking the time on her mobile, Molly snorted, "Meena, you're such a lightweight. It's barely seven."

Meena folded over and promptly threw up, splattering her stomach over the pavement.

She'd just broken it off with her boyfriend, though. Molly supposed she got a pass.

A black cab sidled up to the curb, glittering with the London lights against its polished exterior. Jim said a few words to the cabbie before coming and grabbing Meena. He grimaced at her alcohol dampened breath. Molly followed him to the cab, momentarily stopping when the world tipped sidewise. She managed to fall despite her best efforts to stay upright.. Her wrist slammed into the pavement and screamed,as did her hip. "Dammit."

Jim thrusted Meena into the back of the cab before helping Molly off of the ground. "You alright?"

Molly nodded, felt her hair graze over her cheek. She needed to go home. A few shots and she was a stumbling mess. Molly glanced at the cabbie who was shouting at Meena, his voice muffled. Her head poked out of the open door in time for another round of vomit to surface. _Dear Lord, the ride home is going to be awful_. At least she wasn't as sloshed as Meena.

"Thanks, Jim," She leaned against his chest as she caught her bearings. It felt like she was on a boat that was slowly leveling out. Soon enough the ground wasn't swirling. Jim smelled fabulous, like vanilla. "Really, it's awfully nice of you. I'm really lucky you happened to be here. I never would've gotten that twat out." She motioned to the bobbing head of Meena in the back seat. She seemed to be singing and the cabbie looked ready to murder her.

Jim shrugged, watching as Molly plopped down next to Meena. She was singing _All By Myself_ , and she wasn't much of a singer. _The cabbie's going to toss you both out if she keeps it up._

"It's no problem." Jim's white teeth were framed by pink lips. The sight focused Molly back on Jim instead of keeping her hand slapped against Meena's mouth. "I was thinking-if you're up to it that is-if you'd want to run by Bart's later tonight for coffee?"

Laughing, Molly replied, "The coffee there is awful, why'd you want to go there?" Molly exclaimed, revolted, when she felt Meena's slimy tongue lather her palm with saliva. Quickly wiping the spit from her hand, she provided Meena with a withering glare. Meena had licked her and was now back to screeching some other ballad that was unidentified due to her slurring and lack of an actual melody. _She's completely tone deaf._

Finally the cabbie burst over Meena, "Are you going to sit around and chat until morning! Jesus, can you shut her up?"

Jim ignored the chaos that was taking over the cab. "Is that a yes?" He had that boyish smirk painted on his face.

Blinking Molly tried to remember what he was asking. _Coffee, you idiot. He wants to have coffee with you._ "I'd love to have coffee, yes," Molly clicked her safety belt. "But Bart's coffee? No thank you, we'll go someplace else."

Meena fell across Molly's lap. "Why'd you wan' to leave me, Moll's?"

 _Absolutely helpless._ "Actually," Molly ran her hand over Meena's clammy forehead. Jim gave her a knowing look. "Yeah, should probably make sure she doesn't die of alcohol poisoning." Conveying an apology with in a grimacing smile, Jim merely shrugged.

"Yeah, she doesn't look too hot." Meena gasped, completely offended. Jim giggled with Molly.

He started stepping back toward the pub. "I'll be in touch, then!" He winked and melted back into the crowd.

Molly closed the door, and rattled off her address to the Cabbie who replied with, " _It's 'bout time. That girl better not throw up in my cab_." The cab lurched into motion all the same.

In the time it took to go a block, Meena had transitioned from boisterous drunk to the resemblance of a hurt and whispers came from her within the cradle of Molly's lap. "He told me he loved me, Mol'y. Tol' me with his mouth, like, with words." Meena's glossy eyes burst with tears. The beaded up and coursed down her flushed face, across the bridge of her subtle nose. "Why didn't he mean it, Mol'y? Why'd he use me like tha'?"

The pathologist, who was sobering up quicker with the current conversation, inhaled sharply. Her petite fingers weaved into the tangled mess of hair on her lap. A vision of Sherlock's impaling eyes saturated her vision. "I don't know why, Meena. I don't know why men use us. I guess we're just that type of girl. The throw away type."

Meena wailed into Molly's legs. "Tha' didn't help!"

 _Perfectly handled, Molly. Want to terrorize some children while you're at it?_

"Sorry."

* * *

Meena called Molly the next day from work, jabbering on about the night before. " _Dear Lord, you need a new couch, it's horrible on the back._ " Meena said. She suddenly came quietly through the receiver, muttering something intended for a co-worker that she couldn't hear.

"Maybe if you didn't get plastered at seven in the evening you wouldn't have had to sleep there." Molly was thumbing through her most recent autopsy notes, filling out her paperwork.

Meena snorted on the other end. " _Yeah, let's talk about that for a mo' shall we? Your bedside manner is bloody awful. 'The throw away type'? Jesus, you're not getting a 'number one best friend' plaque any time soon_." Despite her words Molly could hear the smile in her voice.

Molly finished up a sentence before situating her phone more comfortably against her face. She smirked against the phone. "I'm surprised you actually remember that." She said. "And anyways, I'm a forensic pathologist, what do you expect? My patients don't seem to mind my bedside manner."

The outburst of laughter on the other end caused a sense of pride to well in Molly's chest. " _You're hopeless, you know that_?" Meena said. She sounded as if she was walking, or maybe jogging more like it. " _I've got to go. There's a meeting. Pray for me._ "

"Late again?"

" _Piss off."_ Meena said. " _But if you must know yes! Now stop being an arse and pray for me!"_

Molly's laugh caused a nurse passing by to stop and a check into the office. The pathologist smiled quickly before closing the door with her foot. "I don't know how much praying will help, but alright. Ta for now."

The line died and Molly slipped the mobile into her lab coat. She placed her previous notes to the side and into her pile of completed paperwork before pulling new notes from her dwindling pile. She began the process of typing up the notes, shooting a quick e-mail to Stanford about when to expect her paperwork from the past week.

He replied almost immediately which was, somewhat, unusual.

 _Dr. Hooper,_

 _Thanks for getting the paperwork done, turns out you're going to be doing quite a bit more. Sorry. There's been an explosion, gas they said, and they found 12 dead. I need you down in the morgue pronto. I'm trying to get ahold of Dr. Cour right now to come in and help._

 _Thanks,_

 _Dr. Mike Stanford_

 _St. Bartholomew's Hospital_

Molly re-read the email twice before pinning her ID badge on and dashing out of the office. She followed the halls past empty waiting rooms and nurses desks. Passing a specific waiting room where a few people were seated, watching a little boy playing with the toys available, the TV blared a message that burned Molly's ears. She took a few steps back to get a better view of the screen dangling from the wall.

The newscaster's voice echoed about Molly's head. "Word's just come in about the gas explosion here on Baker Street. They've managed to evacuate the building, which the explosion took two stories out of." The man with sparkling eyes, and a plastic mouth turned his body to the side so the camera could latch eyes on the devastation behind the police tape. In the afternoon sun, the smoldering remains of shattered building flashed in time with police and ambulance lights in the background. Smoke swirled upwards, but the building didn't resemble Sherlock's flat. The camera panned back to the newscaster. "As you can see Scotland Yard is working overtime here, and although they've claimed to believe it was a gas explosion, they are furthering their investigation on the matter. We don't yet have any news of casualties, but we'll bring you additional coverage—" The voice faded as Molly walked with a renewed panic down to the morgue.

If she had to do Sherlock's autopsy, she was going to kill him. Molly shot a quick text out to him, asking if he was alright, before shuffling her way into the lift and lowering herself into the bowels of the hospital.

Mike was waiting in the hall when the lift doors peeled open. "Molly, thanks for coming so quick." He matched his pace to her own, but with his stubbier legs he was double stepping it. "Here is their files. Scotland Yard is pretty sure it was a fluke gas explosion, but they want to cross out any doubt."

Molly skimmed over a few of the files. Three men, five women, four children. She had her work cut out for her. "Wouldn't finding out about the explosion be more up to the forensics department? Blown apart bodies are blown apart bodies, there isn't a whole lot that I'd be able to find from a body about what type of explosion it was. "

Mike scoffed. "I doubt that. You're one of the best pathologists I've ever had. There was that case where you found the dirt under the fingernails—"

"I'm alright," Molly appeased, a shy blush bursting on her face. "I'm no Sherlock Holmes."

"You're a close second!" Mike slapped her back before turning into the morgue. Two of the bodies from the explosion were out in the open; one waiting off to the side, the other on the slab. "I'll let you know if I hear back from Rich if he's coming in. I'll try and find someone for you though."

"Thanks." Molly slipped off her lab coat, which she rarely used for the actual autopsies, and instead pulled on a blue medical smock. It fell well past her knees. On her forearms which were left bare save for her blouse, she pulled up plastic coverings. Mike had finally bought a box of gloves specific for her smaller hands and they latched on as if a second skin. Before pulling a medical mask and surgical hat on, Molly read through her current patient's file.

 _Male. Forty-one. Unidentified. Found on the ground floor-_

Molly's phone buzzed against wall where her coat pocket cradled it. _Sherlock_. She hadn't seen a file for him. _So not dead._ But she also hoped he wasn't seriously injured. When she'd fished the mobile from the pocket, a message alert was blinking on the screen. With a quick glance around the morgue Molly knew was empty, she opened the message. One word.

 _OBVIOUSLY._

 _-SH_

Molly placed her phone back where it came from. The wave a relief that splashed over her pushed her into her work with a renewed sense of clam. She began on the male on the slab, trying to not think about the four children awaiting her touch in the freezers.

* * *

Molly laughed, a tinkling sort of laugh that filled the surrounding air. Jim joined along, causing her to flush. "Alright, so how did you figure out that hidden message I linked in my blog?" She shifted so she was facing him more square in the face, her legs curled against her.

Jim tucked his leg onto the coach and the other continued to dangle off the edge. Toby hissed and curled closer to Molly's feet upon impact. Jim pulled an _oops_ type of face and Molly giggled. "Well," he began. "I'm a master with puzzles. And Sherlock Holmes, well he's just incredible, isn't he? So I had to give it a go. I like to read his blog, I've gotten rather good with following his thought process, at least I'd like to think so." He dropped his head pointedly onto his fist, resting it against the back of the sofa.

Molly hummed, twiddling her fingers over Toby's peppery fur. He purred with one eye still trained on Jim. Toby didn't seem quite sure about the gentleman. He'd nearly taken Jim's hand off when he'd gone to stroke his back.

JIm was really enjoying all of her stories about Sherlock. He didn't seem to have a saturation point. With a smirk, Molly thought that if she didn't know better she'd say he had a bigger crush on the consulting detective than herself. But as Molly glanced at his hand, which had laced with her own, she knew that he was just a big fan. Besides, he hadn't met the real Sherlock Holmes, the arrogant sod of a man who could be rude and calculating. Now that she thought about it though, she still managed to fancy him. He rarely ever spouted off deductions he'd made about her, only when he was at his peak irritation, but she'd seen enough of everyone else to get the picture. Besides, she still wasn't looking over the fact that he used her obvious fondness of him to twist her thinking against her. _Like you aren't a willing participant._ Molly scowled.

"What's wrong?" Jim obviously caught her sudden shift in mood.

She veiled her irritation of Sherlock , and a frustration that even with a kind man who fancied her sitting right in her flat she still couldn't stop thinking about the man who drove her crazy. She plastered a smile on her face, felt it pull at her eyes. Grabbing the remote, Molly shook her head. "Nothing," She chuckled. "It's nothing. Just Sherlock and-" She stopped herself. "It's nothing. You want to keep watching?"

The excitement from Jim caused Molly to buzz with happiness. "Of course I want to! This show isn't actually as bad as I thought it would be. I mean, I don't usually have time to watch shows. But this is just so fantastic!" He faced toward Molly's humble telly she'd invested a good chip of money into.

Molly moved Toby over and scooted closer towards Jim, shy, testing the waters. "Because if you don't like it we don't have to keep watching."

Jim curled his hand over Molly's shoulder, patted it once, beat a rhythm against it with his finger tips. "I'm actually a music lover. I find that it helps me focus, let go, you know. So let the show go on!" He proclaimed, snatching the remote from her grasp and hitting play.

Toby was hauled into Molly's lap, and she forced the reluctant cat to cuddle with her. Jim was to engrossed in the show to bother. Glee had claimed yet another victim. Molly just couldn't be any more relieved that he had caught a liking to her guilty pleasure. Molly still remembers forcing it on Meena, who'd ended up changing it to something else, stating that it was 'rubbish American telly'. Molly kept it a secret from that moment on.

A few more episodes into the first season and Molly felt her eyelids sagging against their weight, her body slumped against Jim.

When he began to move, Molly roused from the limbo between sleep and reality. "Sorry, Moll's, I've got to dash."

Rubbing her eyes, Molly grabbed her phone to check to the time. The wee hours of the morning, right past midnight. "Yeah, so sorry I kept you here. You didn't have to stay as long as you did."

Toby shot her a look of the utmost loathing when she stretched against her tight muscles.

Jim pressed a swift kiss to her forehead after he gathered his belongings and slid them into his pockets. Molly couldn't help but feel a slight burn where he'd kissed her. She didn't know if she liked it or not. "I want to stay." He said. "But I do have to be to work tomorrow."

Molly stood, ready to walk him to the door. "Well thanks for the date, or at least spending time over here. I know we've barely gone out a few times, but I like your company." Instead of showing him her blush, Molly implied a tactic she often used which was basically that if she didn't make eye contact, he couldn't see. She knew it was a ridiculous practice, but after knowing Sherlock anything helped with the feeling of being plucked apart. Jim sometimes gave her the same impression

Jim shifted inside the door. "Listen, I was thinking, speaking of dates. I've only asked you to coffee, and two times that was at Bart's. Maybe I could take you somewhere nicer tomorrow. The Fox maybe?" He'd stuffed his hands into his front pockets. Two denim lumps rising as a monument to his nerves. Molly couldn't' help but grin.

"That sounds lovely."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

Jim nodded frantically. He was beaming. "Right, well then, that sounds great. Alright, well, I'm guessing you're going to be at work then tomorrow too?"

"Yeah, I'm also on call too so if they need anybody before the afternoon shift, or after, I may need to go in."

"Well, I might pop in to say hi. I'm still counting on one day seeing Sherlock Holmes in action. You lucky girl, getting to watch him on his cases."

Molly gawfed. "Sometimes it's a punishment I'd not wish on anyone." Toby sauntered up behind her legs snaking his body around them.

"No matter what you say, I'm going to still be his number one fan!" Jim slid into his coat and took a few steps into the hall. "Ta, Molly and Toby! I'll see you, Molly, tomorrow. I put my number in your phone! Text me."

"Alright, goodnight!"

But he was already enclosed in the silver lift down the hall. She closed the door and the latch catching was deafening in the silence Jim left. She didn't know exactly what they were becoming. They seemed together, they were going out, Molly wondered if he wanted her as a girlfriend.

She felt ridiculous asking questions like that. She'd barely known him a week, and although she found him very charming and wonderful something seemed off.

Toby growled from the couch. _Can cat's growl?_ Her couch invited her for another long session of Glee to take her mind off of relationships. She wanted Meena to come over and be idiotic with her. That's what best friend's were for. But she also wanted to watch Glee.

Glee ultimately won.

* * *

 _I NEED TO USE THE LAB._

 _-SH_

 _Why?_

 _~Molly_

 _DIRT NEEDS TO BE ANALYZED. IT'S FOR A CASE._

 _-SH_

 _I'm on break right now…_

 _~Molly_

 _I'LL BE THERE IN TEN._

 _-SH_

Normally Molly wouldn't care. But she was right in the middle of a rather good plate of Chinese food she'd ordered. Not to mention, Meena was absolutely correct in stating that her couch was a piece of rubbish. She'd fallen asleep on it last night, and her back was tight with pain.

Molly tossed her chopsticks into the container and finished the mouth full she already had stored in her cheeks. Jim was supposed to stop by sometime soon as well. Not to mention she was already working double time trying to get the mounds of paperwork that followed the autopsies of the twelve explosion victims sent out. She pulled up a new message and sent it to Sherlock.

 _Just get started on your own. I'll be over in a mo'._

 _~Molly_

His reply was instant.

 _MOLLY, YOU KNOW I DON'T HAVE ACCESS TO THE LAB ON MY OWN AFTER THE CADAVER_ _INCIDENT. NOW COME._

 _-SH_

 _Don't pretend you haven't nicked my pass from me! I know you took it. I had to get a new one._

 _~Molly_

 _Just give me a minute and I'll be down._

 _~Molly_

She received no reply, so she shoveled a few more hearty bites into her mouth before continuing on with her paperwork. She'd already gotten through the greater part of the paperwork so finishing it up only took another ten to twenty minutes.

As she was finishing the final paper and sending it off, three messages all buzzed her phone to life. After the files cleared she picked up her mobile. Two from Sherlock, one from Jim.

 _IF STANFORD TOSSES ME OUT, YOU'RE TO BLAME._

 _-SH_

Molly rolled her eyes. Mike rarely threw Sherlock out. He had a fondness for the detective-for whatever reason-the same as her. Well, maybe not the _same_ as her.

 _DO HURRY. IT'S BEEN WELL OVER THE MINUTE YOU PROMISED._

 _-SH_

 _MOLLY! I WAS THINKING OF STOPPING BY, YOU FREE?_

 _-JXX_

Finding Sherlock the less patient of the two she quickly typed that she was on her way, and let Jim know that she was going to nip down to the lab but if he wanted to wait she wouldn't be too long. There was no reply from either men.

Molly made it to the lab in a considerable amount of time. She was secretly hoping that no one had popped by the lab and found the consulting detective with the lab equipment. Everyone would be shouting for her to be sacked while raising a torch and pitchfork in the air.

When she pushed open the doors to the lab, there was a quick beeping signaling from on the machines. Her spirits soared when she latched sight on the lean man with impossible cheekbones seated where he always did, as if he'd always been there. "Any luck?" She couldn't help the cheerful cloud that washed over her head as Sherlock gave her a dashing smile, triumphantly stating that he'd indeed had luck. His eyes followed her as she made her way over to study the screen, he was glancing out of the corner of his eyes. She wondered what he was looking to find written on her.

The door fell into the lab again as a bashful face peeked round into the lab. It caught Molly's attention from the screen filled with different soil findings. "Oh, sorry, I can…" Jim was smiling, sheepish.

"Jim! Hi!" _What is he doing here?_ He was supposed to meet her in her office.

Then a devilish, awful, idea popped into her mind and she couldn't, not of the life of her, seem to stop it. She was going to run an experiment herself. Play a little game with Sherlock as well. What would be his reaction to a different man in her life? _You're implying jealousy so you can see if Sherlock is caress? Should end wonderfully..._

Jim made motion to leave. He could be so skittish around strangers. He was going to have a heart attack when he figured out who was sitting a few meters from him. Run an experiment on Sherlock-which the git more than deserved-and introduce Jim to the man he couldn't get enough of. Molly's smile shined through her voice. "Come in! Come in!"

Molly turned back to Sherlock, barely catching the fact that he had been looking at her. "Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes." She knew he was trying to mask his excitement. It was practically leaking through his eyes. Just then Sherlock's friend, whom Molly hadn't even noticed, turned around catching her attention. _Oh god, what was his name?_ She didn't ever remember hearing it. "And, uh, sorry?" She asked.

He gave a tight lip smile. He'd obviously encountered this before. Sherlock Holmes cast a long shadow. "John Watson," He glanced at Jim. "Hi." Molly knew she was going to have to remember his name. She filed it away.

Jim hadn't taken his eyes off of Sherlock, who wasn't giving him the time of day. He didn't seem to be minding. It was as if he'd met his idol, but Molly caught a unidentified gleam in his eye as well. His hands brushed each other. A nervous habit. "You're Sherlock Holmes. Molly's told me all about you." For one horrifying moment Molly felt her cheeks glow in confirmation of the statement. A sudden urge to smack Jim across the face made her hand twitch.

Jim rounded toward Sherlock, forcing John out of the way. She shot the man a quick smile in apology. Jim was just so interested he couldn't help it. "You working on one of your cases?" He asked.

No answer. The lab was overcome with stifling awkwardness. Molly jumped in to break up the brewing tension in the room. "Jim works in I.T. upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance." A duet of giggles between Jim and herself masked her horror. _Why the hell did you blurt that out? You sound like an idiot._ Shit. _Just keep smiling, Hooper._

Finally Sherlock glanced over Jim, and with one word Molly's facade fell through her stomach. "Gay." He said.

One glance at Jim. One look at Sherlock. Her smile no longer rested on her lips. "Sorry, what?" He didn't say what she thought he said. _You know better than that. He said exactly what you think he said._

Sherlock seemed to splash into reality, his eyes falling away from the lenses of the microscope. He blinked. Once. _Recalculating._ "Nothing." He smears a fake- _so damn fake_ -smile onto face, looking at Jim finally. "Um, hey."

Molly scowls. Jim beams. He tried to lean next to Sherlock. That's when the scene clattered into ruin. The tray under Jim's hand crashed into the floor, spilling nothing important, except maybe his dignity. Molly felt the innate need to cringe at the embarrassment. "Sorry! Sorry!" Jim bent down to pick up his mess. John, not be able to take it, let his hand fly to his eyes and he turned in rapid time away from Jim.

Molly shrunk. _This is not good._ Sherlock called him gay. Jim made a fool out of himself. Showing Sherlock she was actually a desirable was not going well by any definition. The consulting detective in question shot Jim an irritated glance as he replaced the fallen tray back where it'd fallen from.

Jim wandered back toward Molly. Another think silence filled the room. "Well," Molly turned her attention from everything that happened in the span of twenty seconds. _Gay._ "I'd better be off." Jim said, his hand lightly fell to her back. Molly barely processed the gesture. "I'll see you at The Fox, 'bout six-ish?"

"Yeah!" She forced a smile. _God, Jim, just leave._ The embarrassment was sure to kill her.

He didn't leave though. _No_ , his hand stayed brushing her back and he was, again, gazing at Sherlock. "Bye,"

For some _stupid_ reason Molly thought he might actually be talking to her. It wasn't like he'd come to see _her_ or anything. "Bye." Passed her lips in response, a tiny whisper. The whole time her lips sounded around the words she knew his departure wasn't meant for her. It was for Sherlock, who stubbornly kept his attention on the sample he was studying.

 _Just say something so he'll leave._ Molly took a sharp breath, trying to find ways that she could kill herself. Jim was _still_ waiting for a response. _Jesus, take a hint, Jim. Spare you're losses and just leave._

Thank god for John Watson. Stepping forward, he finally cut the awkward tension in the room. "Bye."

"It was nice to meet you." Jim said, again addressing Sherlock.

 _Leave, god dammit, please just leave._

John, again acted as the mouthpiece of Sherlock who didn't care either way. "You too." That was all that Jim needed. He pulled away from Molly. _Finally managed to pick up on that, did you, Jim?_

God Molly was going to kill Sherlock for being a cock and then kill herself so she wouldn't have to think of this embarrassment again. Jim walked toward the door, but she wouldn't follow. The word 'gay' kept flashing red in her mind. Sherlock was never wrong, but she wasn't going to accept that the only man who'd seemed interested in her was gay.

The door shut, signaling Jim's exit. Molly turned to Sherlock, who still was seated as a statue. She almost felt it was an excuse at this point. "What d'you mean, _gay_?" There was no response, again. Some type of panic was bubbling in her chest. _The only bloke to actually pay you the time of day is actually gay._ "We're together." Maybe if she made that point Sherlock would realize that he'd make a mistake. _That's funny, you actually think that matters to him? Oh, that is cute._

Finally those cold eyes turned on her and he responded. "And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You've put on three pounds since I last saw you."

 _Bastard_. Her gut felt weak. If she didn't already feel awful, he added insult to injury. "Two and a half." Molly argued.

"Eh, three." The bastard didn't even bother to look at her.

John stepped in, he seemed to be the acting conscience. " _Sherlock_ …"

Molly finally allowed her fury to boil over. For a split second she burst. Explosions of red popped in her vision. "He's not gay!" God, she hated him sometimes. "Why do you have to spoil-" She was teetering over a cliff she never knew existed. Molly attempted calm. Jim wasn't gay, she didn't want to accept that he was gay. She didn't want to know that even when she attracted men they still weren't into her. "He's not."

For the first time in all her years knowing Sherlock she actually heard him snort. "With that level of personal grooming?"

A large lump formed in her throat. John snapped at Sherlock, she decided right then and there that she liked this Watson fellow. Not just because he could stand five minutes with Sherlock, but he also seemed to have a moral code. "Because he puts a bit of product in his hair? _I_ put product in my hair." John said.

There was the signs of a tampered down smirk lifting the corners of Sherlock's lips. _Bare the hatches, this is going to get ugly._ "You _wash_ your hair. There's a difference." He was looking at John, not at her, and that forced her to clench her fists to prevent her from smacking him across his razor edged cheeks. "No, no, tinted eyelashes, clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines; those tired clubber's eyes." He wasn't done quite yet. "Then there's his underwear."

The word seemed to whack Molly back to life, she'd sunken into a comatose type of state. "His _underwear_?" She sounded smaller than she hoped.

"Visible above the waistline- _very_ visible. Particular brand." She couldn't stop looking at Sherlock's eyes, even if she knew they were ransacking her very soul. His hand clasped blindly around to the metal tray Jim had previously knocked down. "That, plus the _extremely_ suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here," Those slim fingers with calloused ridges held before her eyes a card, the jagged scrawl that was Jim's arching across the paper. His number. Her hope clattered somewhere between herself and Sherlock. "-and I'd say you'd better break it off and save yourself the pain." He had the nerve to smile at her, as if saying _I've done you a huge favor_.

Watching Glee, the constant questions about Sherlock, his quite obvious gayness, it all clicked. There was a jumbled mess tearing her abdomen apart. _Brilliant, even when they're interested they aren't. It was probably some cruel way to get closer to Sherlock._ Her eyes felt pressured. They were burning up with her throat, and her chest was being yanked at the seams. _Oh God, you're going to cry. In front of Sherlock no less_. Explosions popped in her chest. She'd never let that man see her cry. _Never._

His eyes bare into her, calculating, _always_ calculating. The pitying gaze of John weighed at her. He turned away, as if she was a tragedy he could no longer stand to watch. _You are a tragedy, Molly._ Her eyes stung. Words scorched the back of her throat. _Say something to him. Tell the cock to shove off._ Her throat closed like a vise right as she tried to push some type of language out.

Molly whipped around, unable to do much except to force her tears back. Fleeing the lab, she could practically see the smug smirk that ought to be on Sherlock's face now. _Told you it wouldn't end well._ Molly choked on an outburst of fury or a sob of humiliation. She couldn't quite tell which one it was.

There was a building of the explosions within her. Tears saturated her eyes so that there was only wicked smears of objects. As she reached a dead end hallway, with only a service door capping it off, she felt herself split. Her fist collided with the wall right as the first tear dribbled down her red-washed cheek. Embarrassment contorted her, soon enough she had wrung her abdomen out with her arms, trying to squeeze the stabbing mortification away. The knuckles on her right hand throbbed with pain.

She wanted to scream. _You're better than that, Hooper, wipe off the dirt and put yourself back together._ Anger had consumed her. She was always used, always just a pawn. To Jim, to Sherlock, nothing more than a means to an end.

 _At least you know what to expect with Sherlock._ She inhaled tightly. She _did_ know what to expect from Sherlock. That didn't make his behavior acceptable, but sometimes she also didn't think he honestly knew better. He was somewhat of a lost boy on a ship trying to get it to sail without the help of anyone. He was cold and unsociable, but Molly couldn't hate him for being awkward, or awful, when for the most part he did _try_ to help. Try being the key word. _Still a sod, Hooper, stop denying it._

 _But Jim._ She had no idea, and yet it all made sense. She hated herself for being so ignorant. She was pathetic, sad and pathetic. _Seems like you're going to die alone. The throw away type indeed, Hooper._ A growl rumbled her chest. There was a bite from her knuckles again when they collided a second time with the wall. She probably would die alone. That's the type of girl she was, _the throw away type._

* * *

Wine and crap telly awaited Molly after her _date_ at the Fox with Jim. Jim had been charming, quite the gentleman, and if it weren't for her burning questions, she'd enjoyed being pampered. Her only expensive dress had clung like python to her skin, it was just as suffocating as the doubts bouncing in her thoughts. As soon as they'd finished their appetizers she could no longer stay in the dark. She'd cut him off, mid-sentence as he recounted for the third time his encounter with Sherlock.

That's when she broke. That's when she spilled open. Everything went to hell from there.

They'd been asked to leave after the argument grew into a screaming match

' _What does it matter'_ She could still remember the insane glint in his eye. He was different, as if he'd been hiding for too long and finally wanted to burst. ' _You actually think he'd be interested in you? How ordinary…"_

She smacked him. An hour later her hand still burned. Not from the actual physical contact, but the burning look he gave afterwards. The type look that a mad man harbors.

Then his calm facade won over, but something was wrong. Tipped to the side only slightly, but enough to cause unease. His eyes weren't the same, his smile teetered on wicked. Then it was gone, as if he hadn't skipped like a broken record.

Molly couldn't seem to stop replaying it. The shift of personality was so haunting she almost couldn't care about the fight anymore.

She'd uttered the final words, the only thing she could muster in her confusion and humiliation. " _Piss off."_ She abandoned the scene as soon as the words fell. Her legs had never gone faster, nor had she'd ever managed to hail a cab so quickly.

His face was still burning her eyes.

The wine rushed past her lips and fell down her throat. She barely tasted the tartness of it before she filled her glass again. The buzz was beginning to set heavy over her body. She wanted to spit. Spit on the world. Spit on Jim for playing her, on Sherlock being a cock, on Meena for not answering her texts. She wanted to spit on herself for how gullible she could be and how mousy she was.

So she spit. It ended up dangling precariously from her chin. A purple streak of wine slipped from her lips.

"Can' even spit right." Her words stumbled over each other as they raced from her tongue. Molly wiped at the saliva hanging off her chin, sneering at the wet spot across her jumper it formed.

She took another generous allotment from the wine glass into her cup. _God, stop using the glass, Molly, you're spilling like a pig. Just drink from the bottle damn bottle, it cuts out the middleman._ But she poured the last of the bottle into the glittering china, which sparkled with every drunken tremor of her hand. She was a lady, god dammit, she'd drink from the bloody glass. _Like a lady._

Half of the purple alcohol splashed across her thigh, creating a smear as if paint. Toby shot her a disapproving glare from his curled position across the floor. Through a hiccup, Molly raised her teetering glass. "Cheers, Toby, 'M just a throw 'way. Ya' know tha'?"

With the final drain of her glass, the weights of her eyes overtook her. The glass spilled from her could only see the flashing telly through the eyelids before she dropped into something between reality and sleep.

* * *

Two days. It had been _two_ days since Jim had talked to her.

There was a stifling silence that she couldn't seem to fill. No matter how many messages she shot him, how many voicemails she left, there was still silence. The type of silence that left more to the imagination, the kind that made Molly feel like a hand was digging fingers deep into the muscles of her chest and squeezing.

She'd done everything she could think to do to get Jim to answer her. She'd even left a damn post on her blog. He was the only one who read it anyways. _Ever think he doesn't want to talk to you? You slapped him, and accused him of being gay in front of an entire restaurant._ Maybe it wasn't the _entire_ restaurant, but the scene _had_ escalated. She'd humiliated him and that was uncalled for. No matter how she felt.

Molly pulled from her microscope and checked her mobile again. She knew she'd hear a notification if he'd answered her, but she couldn't help it. She continued to check. _Like an idiot._ The mobile was placed rather forcefully back down by her side and she continued with her particle analysis.

 _Something wasn't right with him anyways._

"Molly!"

She yelped. Not just from the fact it was Sherlock whisking into the lab, but he also had a nasty habit of casting the doors so forcefully to the side that they slabbed into the walls. A spike lodged into the forefront of her head. "Can you stop doing that?" She hissed, forgetting her manners.

Sherlock gave her the look and she knew that he already knew exactly her state. He was still perplexed. "Doing what?" Molly sighed as she squeezed her eyes against the lights of the lab. He was looking just as sleek as he always did. His coat clinging to his body, the blue scarf snaked around his porcelain neck. He was also sporting that wonderfully purple shirt that strained against his chest, the collar of his coat popped against a non-existent wind. In fact he _was_ the wind it seemed.

Molly rubbed at her temples, sparing herself from that awfully attractive puzzled look he had on his face. _Damn it, Molly. You cannot last a day can you?_ "How do you not know?" She nearly managed a laugh. "You fly into the lab like a bat out of hell, dramatically swishing your coat about with your collar popped." Sherlock's eyebrows knit together. "I usually overlook it, but as I'm sure you've _deduced_ , I've got a hangover from two nights of drinking, gained another two pounds-" His mouth began to contradict her. "Shut it. I don't want to hear it." Molly projected a stirn look. "Can we just skip it for today? You can use the lab all you like. I'll let you use a body. I don't really care, but today is not my day."

"Jim broke it off I see." He stated. "You don't seem to be physically injured."

The was a burning glare that Molly again, shot Sherlock's way. "Actually I-" His latter sentence finally registered. "What do you mean not _physically_ injured? Should I be?"

Sherlock set back his shoulders. _Get ready for a punch in the gut. He just doesn't listen._ "Not necessarily. I suppose, however, that you have a right to know that you happened to be dating a criminal mastermind."

Molly burst with laughter. "Jesus, Sherlock, what are you talking about? First he's gay and now he's a criminal mastermind? That's ridiculous, even for you."

Sherlock shifted, set his face to rival solid stone, then suddenly he was walking back out the door. "You can read the details on John's blog." His head popped back around the door. "I do suggest that you be more careful next time, Molly."

His eyes sparked fire across her torso. Before he could disappear again she shouted after him. "Sherlock! Do you need the lab or not? What'd you come here for?" Her head stung. _What's his angle?_

Again that dark head thrust back into the room. Sharp eyes ran over her body once more. She tried not to tuck a piece of fallen hair anxiously behind her ear. She failed. _He's giving you a look, Hooper. Stay strong._ Wings fluttered in her abdomen, right beneath the skin. "What did you need, Sherlock?"

There was a pause. He swallowed and something flickered across those blue orbs. "Look at John's blog." As he faded down the hall she could hear his voice shouting. "I'd recommend background checks with the next one, Molly!"

Sherlock left her fuming, her head pounding from him and his theories. She wasn't going to be made a fool of again by him. She didn't know why he'd come to rub it in her face again. He could be so horrible. Always so horrible.

She yanked the laptop on the table closer to her and logged onto the web. She typed in John's name, and with a few minutes searching she managed to find his blog. Her eyes scrutinized the green text, the numerous titles written from the doctor's hand. There were fifteen. Molly figured that the newest update would be what Sherlock was so adamant about.

 _The Great Game_

She tapped on the link and was taken to the story. John's writing wasn't exceptionally refined, but she was stuck to the page nonetheless. Then her name came up, and he'd linked her blog to his post. _Shit, Molly, this is worse that you thought! Oh god, you're really going to have to move and change your name!_ Something flew up from her throat. Something like a whimper of pure mortification.

Even so, she forced her way past John's story, to the bottom of the page, where everything was made horribly clear to her.

The lab seemed to dim. Her ears crackled and went completely silent. Her head, which had been spitting for aspirin all day seemed to float off just as a brick crashed through her body, bringing her core right to the stony earth.

 _Oh my god._

No, she didn't date a criminal mastermind. _You slapped a bloody psychopath!_ She'd have a mind to thank god she wasn't dead in a gutter, but the shock was still running a course through her bloodstream.

 _Oh god, Jim._ Or, she would be better suited to say Moriarty. The whispered name between Sherlock and John. A name that otherwise Molly had paid no mind too.

 _You've gotten into some deep shit, Molly. Well done._

She really didn't need the sarcasm.

...


End file.
